Archive of Our Own

(And whose fault is that?)

(Logically, Shōta knows that Midoriya’s problems began long before he ever saw Shōta’s soulmark — shattered bones and flinches had proved that much.)

(Unfortunately, self-blame and logic rarely walk hand-in-hand, and this is no different.)

It’s only the weight of Hizashi’s hand on one shoulder and Oboro’s on the other that keeps Shōta from sinking into the shadows and making a break for the nearest escape route, so he settles for rooting himself in the well-worn carpet and watching in silence as Midoriya looks around the now-illuminated room in wide-eyed shock. Mrs. Midoriya — ‘please call me Inko, Aizawa-san’ — had warned them not to use party poppers, not with how Izuku reacts to explosions (fuck, Shōta has been so fucking blind). So instead, all of the kids — a veritable quarter of his class, if he includes Shinsō in that number — had flung handfuls of confetti into the air themselves.

He has a strong suspicion Oboro would have offered his quirk — his new, very unsettling quirk — to help, but with the adapted quirk-suppressing monitor around his ankle, that wasn’t exactly in the cards.

(… Fuck, Oboro is here.)

Midoriya blinks a few times, clearly making a valiant attempt at processing the number of people crammed into his not-especially-large apartment. And crammed is an apt word for their situation — the kids, all seven of them, have somehow managed to squeeze together on top of the Midoriyas’ couch (well, save Iida and Shinsō, who opted for the floor on account of their heights — but even so, five teens on that couch is still an impressive feat). Inko has her hands resting on the back of the only other chair in the room, in which All Might — just as bandaged as his student, and Shōta refuses to ask if he actually has a doctor’s permission to be here — has been seated since he arrived.

Shōta, Hizashi, and Oboro have had to make do with finding the most comfortable patch of wall to lean on. Not too hard an achievement — Shōta’s accustomed to long hours on his feet, and suspects the same of his companions. Though, of course, for different reasons.

Midoriya blinks again, eyes beginning to look suspiciously bright. “You all— what?”

“Happy birthday, Midoriya,” Shinsō enunciates with what Shōta would call an impressive deadpan if it weren’t for the bright pink color of his ears.

“My— but my birthday was last month!”

“Yeah, and you never told us!” Uraraka pipes up, accusatory tone undermined by her bright smile and the way she and Asui are curled around each other on the couch. “So, sorry we’re late, now let’s get started!”

Shaking his head slowly, Midoriya’s gaze darts to every corner of the room, and Shōta forces himself to remain still and not react when it skitters away from him before their eyes can meet. This was never going to be easy, not after — well, no point sugar-coating, not after the mistakes they’ve both made. But Shōta said he would be here, and here he will be.

“I…” There’s something terribly fragile in Midoriya’s voice — and now that he hears it undisguised, Shōta finds it far too familiar. “… but why would you all…”

“Izuku,” Todoroki utters quietly, standing from the piece of couch he’d claimed and stepping around his friends to stand in front of Midoriya. He raises a hand and pauses, visibly waiting for Midoriya’s eyes to track his motion and no Shōta is not thinking about the implications because for fuck’s sake, the crises can wait a few hours for once.

When there’s no flinch, no pulling away, Todoroki reaches out and brushes his fingers across the flowers blooming vividly across Midoriya’s bare face — a wild explosion of colors, rich purples and emerald greens and flush pinks and whites that almost seem to shine in the light. It’s striking, how vibrant they are now that they’re uncovered and clean — how crisp the petals look, when not marred by blood and dirt. Midoriya’s freckles, some dark and some light, scatter across the blossoms as though they’re simply more splatters of paint, artfully arranged.

The array of color suits his student, Shōta thinks, firmly setting aside all thoughts of the other relationship they share. Midoriya is the sort of kid who simply wasn’t made to be dull. Who couldn’t be if he tried.

Todoroki traces along the edge of one of the flowers, before leaning back and silently offering Midoriya his hand. “… Come on. They’re as stubborn as you, you know.”

Of all the possible statements, it’s that that draws a shaky laugh from Midoriya. “You’re— you’re one to talk, Shōto.”

"Hm." From their positions, Shōta can't see Todoroki's expression, but he suspects his more reticent student is smiling many seconds before Todoroki turns around and leads Midoriya back to the couch, their hands folded together. The four girls squish out to either side to make room for the pair — Jirō climbs fully onto a very flustered Yaoyorozu's lap, and Shōta wonders for a moment if he should reprimand the girls for inappropriate behavior.

But this isn't U.A., and none of the other teens seem to mind. So he’ll leave it be.

Todoroki takes his seat beside the Yaoyorozu-Jirō stack, pulling Midoriya down beside him. To Midoriya’s other side, Asui immediately leans over to knock her shoulder gently against his, and a touch more tension seeps from Midoriya’s frame at the gesture.

Still, the silence hangs heavy over the room until Inko claps her hands together with the sort of decisiveness only earned from over a decade of child-rearing. “Alright, then! Izuku, I know I promised katsudon—“ Is that the Problem Child’s favorite? Every day, Shōta learns more about his students against his will (not that he minds). “—but I think it’s only fair to start with cake, don’t you?”

Midoriya stares at his mother in pure bewilderment. “But didn’t we already—“

“Deku-kun,” Reaching around her— friend? Soulmate? — Uraraka nudges Midoriya’s shoulder not unkindly, “Are you really saying no to cake? With us?”

“What? No, I just—“

“If it is any ease on your conscience, my boy,” All Might — or should that just be Yagi, now, considering that there are no muscles to be seen — speaks up, and does (in Shōta’s opinion) an excellent job of ignoring how a little under 90% of the room look at him in awe, “The cake was my doing. When Inko-san mentioned your friends wanting to do something for you after your ordeal, I asked if there was any help I could offer. The cake is out of my pocket, so please, do not worry.”

While Midoriya does not look less worried, judging by the pallor of his skin, he swallows with some apparent difficulty and nods.

“O— okay, then.”

Taking the wavering statement for the acquiescence it is, Inko nods firmly and bustles back into the kitchen. Hizashi shifts in place, but Shōta grabs his friend’s elbow before he can attempt to go offer assistance. The Midoriya apartment isn’t large and the kitchen is no exception — staying out of the way will be more helpful to Inko than extra arms and hands cluttering up the space. With his mother gone from view, Midoriya’s eyes skitter around the room in obvious search for a new distraction — from what, Shōta doesn’t need to ask. They land first on Yagi, and Midoriya begins to open his mouth — but then his gaze shifts again, and he directs his shaky words to Oboro.

“You’re— um, you’re Shirakumo-san, right?”

Shōta doesn’t have to turn his head to know that his friend is beaming at the acknowledgement. “I am! Shirakumo Oboro, at your service! Good to see you looking a bit better.”

From the floor, Shinsō pats Midoriya’s knee as his friend goes through a series of expressions too quick for Shōta to catch. Settling on something nervous and a bit wry, Midoriya quirks one shoulder, an unspoken reminder of the injuries he’d been forced to sit with, untreated, for the three days he was with the League. “Thanks. For— um, for the end, there.”

Shinsō pats Midoriya a bit more forcefully.

In Shōta’s periphery, Oboro waves his hand. “No need to thank me! I mean, if anything, I should be thanking you, Clover kid.”

“Why— um, why Clover kid?”

The hand in Shōta’s periphery turns to gesture at his own cheek — not Shōta’s, thankfully, since that would probably be a bit much for Midoriya right now. “Lucky clovers! I came up with it, since the clovers really stand out from all the other stuff!”

Which is true — back in the short time between the appearance of Shōta’s second mark and Oboro’s death, the four-leaf clovers had been the only part of the mark properly decipherable. Even while Shōta had been denying any desire for connection to this random new soulmate, Oboro had been fawning over the mystery kid almost as much as he fawned over his own niece. Which was a lot — Oboro always had loved kids, loved getting to help them and play with them and make them laugh, a big brother to the entire neighborhood. If things had gone differently, maybe he would’ve been the teacher, and Shōta…

Midoriya flushes, and Todoroki nudges his shoulder. “See, I told you you were lucky.”

“Shōto—“

“Hey, don’t make him cry!” Uraraka exclaims, leaning across Asui’s lap in order to smack Todoroki on the arm. “We haven’t even done cake yet! If you make him cry before we even get to the presents—“

Shinsō snorts. “What, you’ll lose a bet?”

“Yes!”

On the other side of the couch, Jirō chokes, coughing as Yaoyorozu pats her back gently. “Well, cake’s on its way, so someone better start getting ready to pony up.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered why the phrase is ‘pony up, kero.”

“Ah, Asui-san! I believe it harkens back to horse races in early modern America—“

“Actually,” Hizashi cuts in, “Some sources suggest it might have actually come from a bastardized piece of Latin, predating the existence of the United States altogether. Though of course, the colloquial usage was popularized there during the 19th or early 20th century. Well remembered, Iida-kun!”

As Iida’s cheeks take on a dusting of pink at the praise, Inko calls from the kitchen, “Alright, everybody ready?”

Midoriya pales, hands rising up to cover his ears as his mother steps back into the room with a candle-lit cake before her. The motion confuses Shōta until he realizes that Midoriya probably thinks they’re going to sing at him — teenagers still get sung to sometimes, right? (Or perhaps Midoriya just doesn’t know, because if U.A. is the first place he’s had friends, he may never have had a birthday celebration like this before.)

While Midoriya peers around the room anxiously, Hizashi makes some sort of gesture towards the rest of the kids. “On three, just like I taught you! One, two, three—“

In unison — and in English — they bellow, “THIS IS YOUR BIRTHDAY SONG! IT ISN’T VERY LONG! HEY!”

… Oh dear god, when did Hizashi teach them that? Nevermind the rest of the shit that happened in high school, that song was the true bane of Shōta’s teenage years. (Never shall he admit that he still prefers it to any actual singing, because such a gesture would be the gateway to Hizashi shout-singing at him all the time. He’ll stick to judgmentally rolling his eyes once a year and giving Hizashi his choice of cake first, thanks).

Beside Shōta, Oboro nearly chokes on his own laughter, slamming into Shōta’s shoulder as he doubles over in hastily-muffled cackles. Which at least seems to distract Midoriya from his previous nerves, since the boy now looks rather concerned instead. His friends soon draw his attention back, as Uraraka urges him to blow out the candles and Asui reminds him to make a wish. Staring down at the cake before him with a look of deep concentration, Midoriya takes a deep breath and exhales hard, extinguishing the flames entirely. Huh, excellent breath capacity and control — possibly an unintended result of his muttering habit. Perhaps Shōta should put him on the roster for water rescue training with Asui and Todoroki— no, not the time.

As Inko takes over cutting the slices, Jirō raises a curious eyebrow. “So, what’d you wish for?”

Uraraka gasps. “You can’t ask that! If he tells us, it won’t come true!”

“Not true, I wished for a guitar when I was ten and told my parents, and then Dad went into the studio and came out with one he’d already bought for me a month ago. Mom laughed so hard she was crying.”

“I don’t know,” Todoroki muses, nodding his thanks to Inko as he stares at his cake in confusion, “Are you sure that wasn’t just you being predictable?”

“Why, you—“

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell us, kero.” Asui tells Midoriya, who shakes his head slowly.

“No, it’s fine, I just— everything I usually wish for, I have now, so I didn’t know what else to want.”

From the floor, Shinsō drawls, “Wish to be attacked by less villains,” which has half of the teens tensing warily. Midoriya, however, just laughs quietly and nudges Shinsō’s shoulder with his knee. Oh great, two Problem Children with fatalistic humor as a coping mechanism. It’s like they’re multiplying — Shōta can already hear the ‘they got it from their dad’ jokes now. Lucky for him, Hizashi doesn’t have a damn leg to stand on here. Unlucky for both of them, Oboro has a decade and a half of teasing to catch up on, and no qualms about taking it. (That’s a lie, there is absolutely nothing unlucky about Oboro’s return. Even now, it’s barely believable.)

(Clover kid, indeed.)

Midoriya does not cry while the cake is summarily devoured — though he does come close a few times, most notably by nearly dying of laughter at Hizashi’s outraged squawk when Oboro steals the half-melted candle from his slice. The runner-up is also by laughter, when Iida reminds everyone to chew thoroughly before swallowing, and Shinsō takes that as a challenge to stuff an entire slice of cake in his mouth. Crumbs fly everywhere, Iida’s ears go bright red, and Midoriya nearly falls off the couch.

But, despite some people attempting to suffocate themselves with baked goods, the eating of cake in fact goes by without significant trouble. Shōta doesn't eat anything himself — sweets tend to sit to heavy in his gut, relative to the rest of his diet these days — but does accept Inko's offering of green tea when she brews some for Yagi and Oboro to drink. That he's been grouped with the two individuals who are on medically restricted diets… well, it certainly says something about Shōta's eating habits, and he resolves to ignore said something for the time being because he has enough to process right now, thank you very much. (Flowers and old scars, grief and four-leaf clovers).

All too soon, the food is gone and Inko busies herself with clearing the dishes, shushing Iida away when he offers to help. Without the distraction pastry provided, the attention turns to Shinsō as he pulls a gift bag decorated with the most hideous All Might pattern that has ever disgraced the eyes of earth from underneath the table, to the alarmed coughing of the man himself.

Midoriya winces at the sight of the bag, which nearly overflows with multicolored tissue paper. "You guys— you didn't have to, I didn't even—"

"Deku-kun," Uraraka scolds, beating both Shinsō and her own soulmate to punch if their faces are any indication, "Did you really think we decided to throw you a belated birthday party without planning on presents? Besides," She adds, as Shinsō hands the bag up to a very alarmed Midoriya, "We bought this before the training camp, so you don't get to feel guilty about that."

Warily, he takes the bag and sets it in his lap. "This feels heavier than one gift…"

"Well, we were hardly going to let Uraraka-kun be the only one to give you something!" Iida protests with an emphatic chop of his hand, though his serious tone is somewhat ruined by the crumb stuck to his cheek. Softening, he continues, "They are not large gifts, but I hope they will bring you some happiness, Midoriya."

True to character, Midoriya's eyes go rather misty, and he nods before reaching into the bag with a tentative hand. It's an unfairly charming image, since the top of the bag is around the height of his chin — though the charm is ruined when Midoriya winces, reminding Shōta (and the rest of the room) of his recent arm-related injuries. Before he can shake it off, Todoroki lifts the bag from Midoriya's lap and holds it on his own instead, withdrawing the first individually-wrapped parcel and setting it on Midoriya's knees silently.

Jirō grimaces at the dark blue tissue paper. "Ah, that one's from me. I don't know if it's any good, since we haven't…"

"Oh, you didn't need to—"

"Shush your mouth, yes I did." She shoots him a stern look, which earns her a tired laugh as Midoriya slowly pulls the paper apart. "Look, we haven't hung out much before now, but you seem cool and you've put your neck out there for most of us already, so seems like I owe you this much at least. I'm just sorry it's not much— I only woke up the day you were rescued, actually."

Looking up from the gift, Midoriya stares at her in visible concern. "Are— are you alright? You and Aoyama-kun both got caught in the gas, right?"

She grimaces again, running a hand through her hair. "Yeah, not my most winning moment. But we're both fine now — little tired, but that's pretty normal. Anyways, that—" With her other hand, she gestures to the mess of paper, "—was just since you always seem kind of stressed out, and I know this stuff helps me when I get wigged out."

Midoriya pulls the small disc case from its wrappings, looking down at what Shōta can just barely make out as Jirō's clean handwriting scrawled across the top of a CD. " 'Music to make your mean bitch brain shut up'?"

Beside Shōta, Hizashi chokes. On the floor, Shinsō cackles.

Snickering, Jirō explains, "I just went through my music collection and burned some of the songs that make me feel calm when something's bothering me. I don't really know what sort of music you like, though, so if you don't like any of them I promise I won't be offended."

Fingers brushing across the case, Midoriya shakes his head. "No, I'm sure I'll— I'm sure I'll like them. Thank you, Jirō-san."

"No problem, Midoriya."

Todoroki brushes the now-empty tissue paper into a still-chuckling Shinsō's lap, prompting a new round of laughter as he removes the next gift (grey and navy stripes) from the bag. "I think this one is from Iida."

"Ah, yes! That is mine!"

Iida's gift of a new notebook, complete with the signatures of what looks like every hero and sidekick at Idaten (and more than a few others, Shōta notes), earns flustered protests and thanks in equal measure as Midoriya's ears go bright red, while the 'Hero Deku' action figure from Yaoyorozu (pink paper, embossed with metallic cherry blossoms) nearly brings its recipient to tears. Yagi has a good chuckle at that one, ribbing his protegee (Shōta's no fool, he's noticed that quite well enough by now) in a gentle manner over his first piece of hero merch. Knowing Midoriya, it'll likely be fighting for space with all the others.

The tears don't have time to fully form, though, because Todoroki pulls out his own gift next (wrapped in red tissue paper covered liberally in white snowflakes, almost certainly intended for Christmas gifts instead of an admittedly clever Quirk joke), and Oboro has to hastily stifle laughter as Midoriya pulls out the shirt within. It's clearly custom-made, that much is evident from the little clovers decorating the text — and Shōta will fully admit himself impressed, for getting a custom shirt with such a quick turnaround, because he's 90% certain the clovers have to have been a suggestion from Oboro somehow — but the text. Oh, the text.

Todoroki obviously knows Midoriya far too well, because the shirt's text reads 'SOULMATE" in blocky black katakana and is a perfect match for the rotation of at least six similarly ridiculous shirts that Shōta has seen his student wearing.

Despite the redness starkly visible beneath the flowers on his cheeks, Midoriya laughs when he sees the design. A full-throated laugh, even, that only doubles in force when Todoroki solemnly opens his jacket to reveal the same design, except on a mint-green fabric with white chrysanthemums. Beside Shōta, Oboro loses the war against his own diaphragm as Todoroki states, with a tone so solemn it has to be intentional, "Now we match, Izuku."

"You're the worst," Izuku states emphatically, hugging the shirt close to his chest before setting it carefully on the table with the other gifts, "I love it, thank you."

A small smile, lightning-quick and nearly bare enough to miss, tugs at Todoroki's lips as he reaches back to pull the last parcel from the quickly-deflating bag. Shinsō starts as the bundle — wrapped in layers of lavender and cheery yellow paper, and tied with an extraneously large green bow — is placed in Midoriya's lap, rubbing the back of his neck in what Shōta now understands to be a nervous gesture. "Ah, that one's— uh, me and Uraraka and Asui actually picked that out together, so it's sort of from all of us. We, uh — that's the one we got a while ago, so if it turns out you don't like it now— ow, hey!"

"Don't make him not want it before he's even opened it!" Uraraka scolds, leaning back from where she'd reached down to smack Shinsō's shoulder. "Don't listen to him, Deku-kun. We were gonna make you cookies too, but there wasn't much time, so it's a little small."

Midoriya smiles wryly at her, looking more at ease than he has in... well, Shōta's not going to think about that right now. "It's fine. I, uh— I don't usually get a lot of birthday gifts anyways, so small is fine."

So Shinsō shrugs, and Uraraka and Asui lean on each other's' shoulders, and Midoriya unfurls the leaves of paper, and—

Is that

It is

"Oh." Midoriya stares at the length of fabric clutched in his scarred, shaking hands — grey, and stitched in careful layers, so visibly soft even at a distance — and blinks rapidly. The flowers covering both sides of his face continue onto his eyelids. (Of course they do, Shōta's do as well, he's familiar with the shapes already). "Oh, this is— this is—"

"We found a shop at the mall that does custom hero merch, kero." Asui comments, wrapping one of her own hands over Midoriya's. "Shinsō-chan spotted this on the wall — the owner said it was a commission originally, but the customer backed out just before it was done. She was very happy to hear that we knew someone who might like it." In a conspiratorial tone, she added, "You know, Mic-sensei laughed so hard coffee came out of his nose when we showed it to him, kero."

Hizashi squawks in mock-offense, earning laughter from at least half the room, but Shōta can't bring himself to pull his focus away from Midoriya, who only manages a watery chuckle as he rubs the fabric between thumb and forefinger. On Midoriya's other side, Todoroki sets the empty bag behind the back of the sofa before lifting the garment — with a motion so gentle, Shōta almost doesn't recognize him as the same boy who walked into 1-A on that first day of school four months ago — out of Midoriya's hands and draping it around his soulmate's shoulders. A few adjustments, tugging it here and there to make the right parts stand up or drape over, and Midoriya suddenly wears a scarf that — but for a few artistic liberties — is a dead ringer for Shōta's own capture weapon.

The gray contrasts against Midoriya's hair, making the dark green look darker yet, and when his gaze momentarily slips to Shōta's it's like looking in a mirror fifteen years in the making.

And Shōta thinks, oh, this is why.

As Midoriya finally bursts into tears, as Asui pats his back and Todoroki holds onto his hand and Uraraka and Shinsō begin to bicker with each other about bets — as Iida calls for his classmates to behave and Yaoyorozu produces a clover-patterned handkerchief and Hizashi utterly fails at being covert about the photos he snaps at a mile-a-minute of the whole mess — as the last of the weight evaporates from the room, Shōta thinks that maybe he understands.

Oboro's shoulder nudges against his, so foreign and so familiar, and Shouta doesn't think — he knows.

Okay. Okay.

After the tears clear up and a few rounds of party games, Detective Tsukauchi arrives at the door to offer Yagi and the majority of the kids a ride home. He shoots Oboro a cautious glance, but Hizashi quickly assures him that both he and Shōta will be keeping an eye on their recently-recovered friend, and the situation is under control. (There's still a conversation they need to have, and Oboro should be here for it). So instead, it is just Tsukauchi's own erstwhile companion and said companion's students who depart as the sun begins its summer-slow descent toward the horizon.

Midoriya looks at Yagi as the man leaves, and some sort of unspoken communication must pass between them, because the boy nods and burrows a little deeper into the scarf that hasn't left his shoulders since it was placed there. The two of them probably have some sort of conversation waiting as well, after what happened in Kamino. Soon, likely, but not now.

(Yagi pats Shōta's shoulder on the way out. Neither of them need a word to understand that, either.)

In their absence, the Midoriya apartment feels both larger and smaller than before. Shinsō climbs onto the now-open couch beside Midoriya, and Hizashi abandons Shōta almost immediately to sit beside his soul-son. Inko brings a full tea set from the kitchen and begins pouring some for everybody, claiming the end of the couch next to Todoroki for herself. As she passes the cups out, Shōta nudges Oboro towards Yagi's now-vacated chair. He's used to being on his feet, and Oboro's still under medical watch, so better he take the seat than Shōta.

Before anyone else can begin, Midoriya speaks up in a tremulous voice. "We— we don't need to talk about it." His hands worry and pick at the edge of his new scarf — a nervous tic, just like Shōta observed in their lessons what feels like a lifetime ago — and his eyes skitter around the room. "I mean— I mean, I don't— you don't have to, if—"

Shōta breathes in and tries to steady himself. Words have never been his strength — not kind words, not words meant to mend — but for this child's sake, he will do his best. "Midoriya, I owe you an apology."

"I— what?"

"I did not intend to become a teacher." Great, right out the gate, that's not where he meant to start — but the words are out there, so Shouta keeps going. "And I did not intend to have children, or family. When I first received my second soulmark, the only answers I could think of put both of us into a sour light, and I— I was fifteen, only just admitted to the Heroics course. Not a time to consider a future so distant and uncertain. My—" He stops, pauses, almost course-corrects — and doesn't, because this truth is necessary too. "—When my first soulmate died, I decided it would be better for both of us if I never met my second. Heroics is not a career for those who want long, happy lives — Oboro's death proved that to Hizashi and I very, very early."

He pauses again, and Oboro pipes up in the silence, twirling one tendril of smokey-blue hair around his finger. "We'd talked about you, some, before then."

"Wh—" Hizashi shoots them both a look of offended betrayal that Shōta refuses to dignify with a response, "—you two talked about this? And never told me? Rude, totally rude, I have no best friends. Inko-san is my new best friend."

Inko squeaks, startled, and Todoroki pats her shoulder as Midoriya giggles weakly. Leave it to Hizashi to take a somber moment and brighten the mood — even at his most obnoxious, he is a good friend. A good Hero. Shōta takes the reprieve for what it is and forges on.

"When you were placed in my class," Midoriya winces, and Shōta doesn't blame him — the first week was not a particularly stellar show for either of them, "I did not think highly of you. I realize now that this was a great disservice to you, Midoriya. You have proved yourself intelligent, creative, and more dedicated than many heroes twice your age. No, don't protest this," He holds a hand up as Midoriya opens his mouth, allowing himself just a sliver of satisfaction when the expected deflection doesn't come, "You deserve it. Midoriya, I misjudged you when I was fifteen and I misjudged you again when you finally stood before me."

Damn it, why is his throat tight? Illogical. Absolutely illogical. All he's doing is— is saying the truth. "I should never have put you in the position of keeping my secrets, not as your teacher and not as a Hero, and absolutely not when those secrets caused you harm. Intelligence, and creativity, and dedication — even with all of those traits, you are first and foremost my student, and in not doing my utmost to assure your growth and care, I have failed you."

"Sensei, you didn't—"

"Whatever choices you desire to make going forward," Shōta gets out, somewhat forcefully due to the odd lump in his throat, "Please know that I will do my utmost to support you, and if you prefer to dismiss this—" Soulbond, but the word won't form, so he just gestures to their shared flowers in its place, "— then I would be honored if you allow me to continue as your teacher."

Midoriya stares at him, eyes wide and voice silent, for what seems like an eternity. On one side, Todoroki holds onto his hand; on the other, Shinsō has an arm slung across his shoulders. Slowly, as though moving through molasses, he lifts his cup of tea and takes a long sip. Shōta watches him breath in the steam that wafts upward from the drink, and then set the mug down on the table with the soft clink of ceramic on wood. His free hand fidgets with the end of his scarf, and he takes a deep breath.

"When I was in fourth grade, I got left in the forest overnight during a Test of Courage at our summer camp." Ceramic clatters as Inko nearly drops the teapot, her gaze going wide and then sharp at something off in the middle distance. Midoriya continues, "My partners usually went off and ignored me during stuff like that, and the teachers just forgot to come find me. I mean, I assume they forgot, but maybe they just didn't care — most teachers besides U.A. don't, no offense."

(Forget offense, Shōta's of half a mind to go ruin some careers — and judging by the look on Hizashi's face, he won't be alone).

"But anyways— I knew how to set up a campfire and a basic shelter, and it wasn't rainy, so I just made somewhere to sleep for the night." Midoriya shrugs, as though he's not describing a case of custodial neglect that could get a teaching license revoked at a minimum. "Only, it was hard to get to sleep, so I stayed up pretty late. I didn't have my notebooks or anything, so I— um, I started writing a letter to my soulmates, in my head." Todoroki's grip on his hand tightens visibly, and Inko reaches in front of him to place her palm over both with a pale face. "And— and it said, um—"

 

Dear Soulmates,

I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know me, and maybe you won’t want to, but I just want you to know that I'm really excited to meet you! Because you're going to be brave, and lucky, and truthful, and make promises, and those are all really amazing things.

No matter what, I want you to know that you're my soulmates, and I love you.

(Shōta closes his eyes and breathes.)

"—So," The words sound suspiciously damp, but Midoriya continues through in spite of the tears welling in his eyes, "So, that's what I thought then, and— and it's what I think now, too. So if— if you want me, after everything..."

"Of course, Problem Child." Damn his voice, coming out so croaky. "Of course."

Midoriya laughs, a thin little sound, but his eyes are still wary as they dart between Shōta and Oboro. "Right. Right, I just— I know I said that, and all, but— I don't want to— to come between you, and—"

Oboro's spine straightens so suddenly, Shōta half expects him to keep going upward and shoot into the roof — wouldn't be unprecedented, they still have no idea what All for One did to him. He waves his hands at Midoriya, who blinks in confusion at the almost overwhelming enthusiasm. "Wait, wait wait wait, that's what I forgot! Clover Kid, there's something you gotta see!"

He begins unbuttoning his shirt, which earns a faux-offended shriek from Hizashi that Shōta silences with a half-hearted glare, and a surprised laugh from Inko. Both Shinsō and Todoroki utterly fail to react as Oboro tugs the collar open to below his ribcage, baring the colorful markings that stretch from beneath the neck-brace he still has to wear while the doctors attempt to heal whatever the fuck was done to his neck. Shōta's seen their shared mark before, of course — with surprise and then wonder, in the locker rooms before P.E. that fateful day — but even as Midoriya's eyes go wide and wider, he realizes that something looks... different.

"Wait, are those…"

"I—" Standing, almost as if in a trance, Midoriya makes his way around the table to stand in front of Shōta and Oboro, staring at the small green leaves that peek through the stark reds-and-whites of the mark that had lived only through scars on Shōta's chest for the past fourteen years. "—those are clovers. Why—"

"Check yours!"

Hesitantly, Midoriya tugs at the neckline of his own shirt to peek inside, before dropping the fabric abruptly in order to stifle a sob with both hands. His eyes, wide and shining, move up from Oboro to Shōta, and— that can't be possible, right? It can't be…

Without a care for damaging the garment, Shōta tugs his shirt collar down as far as it'll stretch, staring down at the skin beneath his collarbone. Touches the mark, as though he'll feel something different, just in case it's an illusion — but no, the camellias and spider-lilies are vibrant and alive, only slightly tender patches remaining of what were once harsh scar tissue. And between their petals, bursting outward in a verdant halo, are countless four-leafed clovers.

Just like Oboro's, just like Midoriya's.

Scarcely has Shōta let go of his collar before Midoriya slams into his chest in a hug that feels just a bit like a truck. Long arms, far too thin but already regaining strength, wrap around them both as Oboro propels himself out of the chair and into the embrace with a loud, joyous laugh that bounces off of the walls and ceilings.

Cushions squeak and shuffle, and then Hizashi is there, cold nose pressed against Shōta's neck as a hand grasps Oboro's wrist behind his back. Then feathery hair brushes his chin as Shinsō squeezes his way in, sardonically asking, "So, we're hugging now?" and earning a watery laugh from both Midoriya and Hizashi. More rustling, more weight presses in as Inko and Todoroki join in, and Shōta genuinely can't tell whose arms and hands and quiet breaths are whose anymore. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Head pressed against Shōta's shoulder, Midoriya mumbles, "You're not going anywhere?"

"No, nowhere. We're here to stay, Problem Child."

After a moment, Shinsō pipes up, "So, now that we're officially soulmate extended family or something, do I get to call you Izuku?"

Midoriya — Izuku — laughs, stronger this time, and Shōta realizes — Shinsō is right. Hizashi is as much his family as Oboro, bond or no bond — and Shinsō is his, while Todoroki and Inko are Izuku's. Somehow, without knowing a thing, Shōta's family has gone from three grieving friends to blooming flowers and potential and life, life, life. And they're all here, together, in this moment. As lucky as the clovers promised.

In a quiet voice, teary and warm, Izuku whispers, "I love you, Mom. Shōcchan, Hitocchan. Mic-sensei, Shirakumo-san… Aizawa-sensei. I love you guys."

Shōta lets a long breath escape his lungs, and feels it echoed all around him. By this new family.

"Love you too, kid."

Yes, this is here to stay.